~ I was a pro writer. Now it's just fun.

Tag Archives: life

My wife and I are enjoying a permanent honeymoon. Each of us puts the other first. We take care of each other, and we divide the chores and duties according to which of us is best suited to the specific job.

It is surprising that millions of couples, committed to their relationships, make their relationships unhappy and uncomfortable. When I think of those relationships, I feel sympathy for them, and wonder why they were drawn to each other originally.

To begin with, men should neither desire nor seek control. Accept that old saying (I don’t know its source), “If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it does not return, it never was yours”. Keep in mind that the sexiest part of a woman is her brain. Imagine the different emotions a man might experience if his lover is a prominent doctor, or a beloved author, or even an astronaut, compared to a lover that is an ignorant exotic dancer. A man should think of the level of imagery and imagination that the gifted woman might experience with him, rather than the shape of her ‘booty’. Don’t love the package… love the contents.

A good life does not just happen. A good life is built, if people are smart enough and sincere enough to work hard to be right, rather than to merely prevail. Men should take care to help their partners enjoy as much of each day as possible. Women should appreciate men’s efforts. Each must overlook small errors in the other, rather than make big issues of matters that could easily be overlooked.

Respect each other’s point of view and allow for the possibility that you’re not correct. Nobody knows everything and two together know more than two because respect is a symbiotic state, each brain nurturing the other. Give more and you might get more in return.

I was scratching the head of my beloved Doberman, Shadow, and I suddenly noticed my hand.

Of course, I’d seen my hand many times, but this time I noticed it. I genuinely looked at it. It was old. The nails were thick and ridged. The skin was thin and crinkled and knuckles had wrinkles that opened and closed like tiny concertinas when I bent and straightened my fingers.

My hands have done thousands of things: built things, caressed women and pets, drawn a thousand drawings, carved a hundred sticks, cooked a thousand meals. They still work, thankfully, but they’re old, like my face, my legs. my eyes. They all still work, just more slowly and less accurately.

I guess it might seem macabre, but everybody dies and it’s an important part of life. The thought of it never ending is horrifying to me. I’m grateful that there’s an end to the constant battle that is life even though I’m now pretty close to my final hour. Almost all of us have no idea when we’re going to die. Perhaps the only people that know the exact time, day and place of their demise is the people on death row. Some have been told the moment when they are actually set to die.

I have not actually been told to expect death. On the contrary, I’ve been told that I’m fortunate and have a good likelihood of living much longer than the average. Formerly, I was not particularly happy to get that information. I’ve done most everything in life that I wanted to do, seen most everything I wanted to see, so I was ready.

Life handed me a new inspiration: I unexpectedly gained a grandchild late in life, and it has changed everything. I’m going to do what I can to live into my nineties so I can see this incredible kid into maturity. I also want to be available for her and perhaps positively influence her when she is attracted to the dangerous sides of life.

In any case, she’s given me a reason to care how long I live. However, if I was given just three months to live before I became incapacitated, I’d want to do something worthwhile with the remaining time. Of course, one thinks of jerk-off things like running credit cards to the limit just before you die. I’m sure the plastic people would wring it out of your surviving family anyway.

How about being a suicide bomber? You’re going to die soon anyway, so maybe you can find a way to take out some bad guys in one big flash. Or assassinate an evil big-shot without worrying about getting out alive. Of course, donating your body to a medical school is a good thing to do, so perhaps it would be better to not be blown to bits.

I know this: I would not run around doing all those unique activities like sky diving or bungee jumping. I would try to get serene. I’d probably just live in a mature hardwood forest, put out apples to bring the deer around, walk in the woods with my dog, take pictures of interesting fungi and warped trees. Watch the sun rise and set. Paddle around in a canoe. Catch a fish. Write a poem. Die.

Thinking back over my long life, my memories seem to cluster in groups of like categories. The memories of fishing excursions with my brothers and father are grouped chronologically. Memories of the various cars I’ve had throughout my car-fan life are grouped as well. I need not go on; I’m sure, about doctors, dentists, buddies and so on. The main thing is that opportunities for love-making that were passed up cause me some of the few regrets I have about my life.

One thing that bothers me most about those missed opportunities is what the women might think of me for having not responded to their invitations. What an ass I must appear to be and I hate making an ass of myself. But I did it, so I must accept the shame.

To make the situations a little more understandable, I will tell you a bit about myself. For one thing, I was not an athlete. The only sports in which I participated successfully were sports car racing and water skiing. Both sports had engines providing the power. On the other hand, I have a gift of conversation and imagination. I’m a good listener and an interesting story teller. Women have found me physically attractive. That’s just luck, of course. My parents’ genes did well for all three of us brothers.

There are all kinds of situations, from running into a girl you knew in high school to a stranger on a train. Any situation can become an invitation to love-making, and that’s wonderful because I have dedicated myself to becoming a sincere, sensitive and satisfying lover. That might be why I have sometimes not responded to the lure of lust. The variety of moments that I regret for not making love when offered is tumbling in on me as I set out to write this. I feel like I’m revealing it to myself by revealing it to you.

In my early teens I was friendly with a neighbourhood girl, Gloria. She was nice in manner and appearance. She was very big busted for her age and had long legs. We never ‘necked’ or anything. We just sat on her front steps and chatted on summer days.
About twenty-five years later I saw her in a little strip mall. She looked quite the same, with the same sadness that always seemed to be in her. I now think she had probably been molested by her stepfather. She wanted to spend time with me, and I brushed it off and went on with my chore. I should have done something for her.

Another time I recall I was going to a screening in my old Triumph TR3. I pulled into the parking lot of the building and as I stepped out of the car, a young, pretty woman in a light sun dress and little else approached me. She stood close to assure that the scoop neck of the dress could be seen over. She went on about being new in town and not knowing anyone. She pointed to a nearby apartment building and said she just moved in there and was eager to learn the city. I told her I couldn’t help her and went into the screening room. Sitting there in the dark I suddenly realized what the girl really wanted. I felt like a total ass.

Another time, I was pursuing an older woman from the office where I worked. Several times I was invited to her apartment to talk and listen to music. I tried gently to seduce her but was easily put aside. Finally, one evening I decided that I would give it up and just be a friend as she appeared to desire. I didn’t say or do anything different from my other visits except the gentle hints at seduction. When it was time to go, as I approached the door she came up behind me and put her arms around me and held her breasts against my back. Somehow, for me, the moment had passed and it was time to go, so I went. It was too late. Now I regret not turning around and kissing her.

Another one was almost the same in result. She was a Russian masseuse and was helping me with some physical therapy. She had a wonderful figure, was an avid tennis player and a very good physiotherapist. I invited her to become my lover every time I was with her. It was once a week for ten weeks. In the end, the moment had passed. As I left her place for the last time, she sort of posed against a door frame and seemed to be inviting me to hold her. At the same time she was saying that I could come back for a single treatment any time. It didn’t have to be the ten week commitment. Again, for me, the moment had passed. Now, years later, I regret not becoming lover to these women. Nothing can be done now, and I hope they don’t think too badly of me. I don’t live in the same city where the women live, and I’m sure I’ll never see any of them again.

I don’t want to recall any more of them. It makes me feel like an idiot.

I really didn’t expect anything special to happen; I just wanted to see Julia again. I had a delightful affair with her several years before, and we were always as much friends as lovers. She had a beautiful face. I find that faces almost always fit into a ‘type’. Not that they might look almost exactly like the celebrity, but would be that type. Julia was, believe it or not, an Elisabeth Taylor type, and really remarkably similar in nose, mouth, face shape and dark hair.

Whenever a single mom is saddled with a special needs child my heart breaks for that mom. They are trapped in a way of life that is irrevocable. Julia’s story is one that is, unfortunately, too often repeated. She grew up in a small city where social contacts are limited by fewer opportunities because of fewer people. Often, the prettiest girl in town is from a working class family. Julia’s father worked at the Ford plant and Julia was the prettiest girl in town.

Almost as if it was decreed by an irresistible force, the boy from the richest family in town wanted the prettiest girl in town all to himself. He married Julia, to the great disappointment and disapproval of his parents. Some said he did it just to irritate his parents, but I don’t believe that. Julia was not only pretty; she was an intelligent, educated professional woman with a responsible position in a law enforcement department. That rich boy might not have been able to feel a deep love for anyone but himself because of his background, but he certainly could lust after Julia.

Julia became pregnant and the marriage was all it was ever going to be: a standoff between two people, too young and not really compatible. They were together when the baby was born. The infant should have aborted naturally because she was riddled with defects. The child very soon had to be raised in a special hospital that was capable of the trying task. Her mind was not very capable. She was blind as well and generally capable of very little. In short order, the rich boy husband and father was out of there like a shot.

About a year after that, I met her and we had a wonderful affair. I was married and had two children so many people would consider me a louse. I loved my wife and desired her every day… and every day she rejected me, saying “That’s all you ever think about.”

Well yes, I was a turned on kind of guy. And I was really in love with my wife and found her very desirable. She was slender and pretty and typical of her type. Just for the record, I was not a dog myself as I learned from several women other than my wife. For no apparent reason, she decided making love was not for her.

I knew people who were friendly with Julia, and from time to time I’d hear about how she was doing. I’d learned that she’d married again, to a younger man and again became pregnant. The child was happy and healthy this time. However, it seems the pregnancy triggered dormant Multiple Sclerosis within her. The young husband took off.

I got her phone number from one of her friends and called her for a lunch date. The next day I picked her up at her small flat in an old house and took her to a sidewalk café on a small street of high fashion shops and restaurants. I knew she needed canes to walk, so I chose a place where she could get out of the car and go straight into the restaurant terrace and sit at an umbrella table. We ordered lunch and chatted.

“Why did you always welcome me into your apartment whenever I showed up at your door?” I said. “I was a married man, yet I could show up at your place at eight in the morning or three in the morning and you welcomed me with a pretty smile.” She showed that pretty smile again, across the small table at me. It was a hot July day with just enough breeze to make it comfortable in the shade of the umbrella.

“You were safe,” she said. “You were married, so there wouldn’t be any commitment problems for me. I was out of a really painful marriage and I had no desire to get into another one at that time. And you were very good looking.”

Our meals were brought to the table and we continued to chat over lunch.

“You still do it,” she said with a broad smile on her lovely face.

“I still do what?”

“You still look directly into my eyes while we talk,” said Julia. “I loved that about you.”

“Don’t all men do that?” I said.

“You’d be surprised how unique it is,” she said. “You’re a special man.”

I drove her home. The Georgian style red brick house was three storey’s high on a beautiful old street of fine old homes and the shade of huge maple trees. She invited me in for coffee and I accepted.

In her flat the air was cool after the blazing hot summer sun. The heavy curtains on her first floor windows were drawn. The rooms were in dim light that spilled through the edges of the curtains. Julia put her canes aside and made her way toward her kitchen with careful steps while she used the wall for stability.

I went to her and put my arms around her and held her close. She clung to me with desperation that told me how lonely she’d been. Her mother had sold a property she’d inherited and moved to Jamaica. Friends abandoned her one by one as her illness took over her.

I found fasteners for each of her garments and made her naked while we held each other. I lay her back on her bed.

“You have to move my legs,” she said. I lifted her legs onto the bed.

“Does it hurt?” I said.

“No, it doesn’t hurt,” she said. I felt a tone of impatience in her voice. I undressed and lay on my stomach at the foot of her bed and slithered up between her legs. I slid my arms under her legs and lifted them onto my back. She needed me to make love with her. Her vagina was wet and fragrant. Her clitoris reached up to meet my mouth and I caressed her in that way and was rewarded with her sweet nectar.

I kept her legs over my shoulders when I raised myself up over her.

“Am I hurting you?” I said.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she said. “There’s no pain.” I heard in her voice a fear that I might not continue, afraid of doing harm.

I made love with her. It was good to be with her again. She was a very good person. Pretty, light hearted and witty. I often wondered how she could be so positive after all she’d been through. She had a disabled first child and abandonment by her husband. Then she had a healthy child that launched her MS followed by abandonment of her second husband. She had a good, close relationship with her mother. She was to join her mother in Jamaica until the illness struck her and changed her life again.

“You’re even better now than you were in the old times,” she said.

“We live and learn,” I said.

We had our coffee after we’d bathed together. At last I had to leave, and we both knew that we’d not see each other again.

“Thanks for lunch,” she said, “and especially the take-home dessert.”

We laughed together and wished each other good luck. We kissed and I departed. That was many years ago and I’ve since learned Julia passed away and her child is being raised by Julia’s mother in Jamaica.

“Good morning, Ms. Radley,” Clay smiled as he exited the car. “I hope you don’t mind if I say that you always look lovely, and even more beautiful this morning than usual.” Alicia blushed and looked at her hands in her lap.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do you have something special on today, that you have dressed for?”
“That depends upon you,” she said while he was lifting her out of her wheelchair. Clay stopped and stood holding her in his arms, her arm around his neck. She was so light and fragile in his arms, he almost forgot that he was holding her while they talked.
“How does it involve me?” he said.
“You haven’t answered me about the seventh,” she said. Clay looked at her for a moment.
“If I accept the invitation,” he said, “may I kiss your cheek?”
“What? Here? Now?” she laughed. He’d never heard her laugh, or even seen her smile very much. It was like music, and he felt drawn to this strange, beautiful injured bird.
“Why not?” he smiled. She turned a pink cheek to him, and he pressed his lips gently to her impeccable skin. Alicia expected a quick peck on the cheek, but Clayton let his lips linger, and the warmth flowed through her face like a hot blush. It coursed through her body until her arms tingled and she felt a moment of panic as the unfamiliar rush trembled through her breasts and belly until it nestled between her legs with a fluid feeling she’d not experienced for many years.
Alicia sat limply and speechless while Clay lowered her into the back seat and put away her wheelchair. Alicia sat silently staring out the window while Clay drove her to her office. When he placed her gently into her chair on the sidewalk in front of her office, he took one of her tiny white hands in his strong warm hands and looked into her moist blue eyes.
“I will be honoured to escort Ms. Alicia Radley to her banquet on the seventh,” he intoned in a humorous imitation of and aristocratic gentleman. Alicia immediately picked up on it and with a feigned gracious move, held up her other hand for him to kiss. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand. When she tried to withdraw it in another gesture of faux grandeur, he held it tightly. He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, his lingering lips hot on her frail hand sent spasms of desire deep into her body. She fought the reflex to jerk her hand away from him, and forced herself to look at his wonderful face, eyes closed, full lips pressed lightly to the inside of her hand.
Alicia Radley was overwhelmed by the feelings of passion that welled up within her. She had been a beautiful, popular young woman when she entered her twenties. Young men from many of the best and wealthiest families in the city pursued her almost constantly. She always had several invitations to every social function, and was considering several marriage proposals, trying to decide which of the young hopefuls might win her love, her passion, and her lovely body for his own. It was during this time that the Multiple Sclerosis struck, and they soon found that all the beauty, brains, and money in the world would not save her from life in a wheelchair. A short life without legs or love was all she had to which she could look forward.

“Seventeen?”
“Yes, what’s up?” Clay said impatiently.
“I have a Miz Latimer calling all the time to get in touch with you,” said Herbie. “Call her back will you, so she’ll stop tying up my lines.”
“I don’t have her number,” Clay said.
“I got it,” Herbie said and gave Marni’s phone number to Clay. Clay clicked the phone and dropped some coins in and called Marni.
“This is Clayton Wing, Marni. What’s up?” Marni was crying bitterly, and choked out her words between sobs.
“I… I… haven’t heard a word… from you,” she sobbed. “What is it, Clay? Why don’t you call me?”
“Why would I call you?” he said, confused by her attitude.
“You fuck me and leave me, eh? Is that it?” Marni shrieked.
“What are you talking about?” Clay said. “You begged me to stay, and you swore it was just for that night, just because you didn’t want to be alone. No obligations, no commitments, just company for two lonely people, remember?”
“I know,” Marni cried, “but I didn’t think I would feel this way.”
“What way?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you taste, your fragrance, your face, your voice.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Clay, concerned and annoyed.
“I know it’s ridiculous,” Marni wailed. “I can’t stop it, I can’t sleep or eat or find any kind of peace of mind. I need Clay. I love you.” Clay was hit hard by these words. Marni was an extremely beautiful, sensual woman, but there couldn’t be love between them. Friendship was the best she could hope for, and even that would be unlikely.
“Look Marni,” Clayton said soothingly, “I have a rehearsal tonight. I have to get ready for my show.”
“Come to my place after, please,” she pleaded. Clayton agreed and hung up, exasperated.
It was almost midnight when Clay arrived at Marni’s door. She was stunning, with impeccable makeup and a transparent nightgown that exhibited her breathtaking figure to perfection. Clay sat down with Marni, to explain to her the importance of developing relationships gradually. She would have to understand that different people have different priorities. Marni swore she understood it all, and begged Clay to stay the night. He looked at her, statuesque and splendid, and agreed to stay as long as she acknowledged that it was not a commitment, which she did. They enjoyed a night of passion and deep sleep until morning when each was forced to hurriedly prepare for the day’s work.
It was becoming a habit. Clay checked his cab out, and as he emerged from the garage to start his morning shift, Herbie’s voice on the radio asked him to pick up the fare at Whitehall Road. He pulled up in front of the mansion as usual, but that’s all that was ‘as usual’.
Alicia Radley sat at the curb in her wheelchair. The usual Scottish plaid and conservative blazer were replaced with a bright, floral summer dress. Over all, the colour was a sunny pastel yellow that was softened by pale green leaves and ferns. Clayton barely recognised her. Her face, that was always attractive with its creamy complexion and refined features, was radiant and animated. Her blue eyes sparkled, free of the glasses that she had always previously worn.

“How are you this morning, Clayton,” she said in a musical voice while Clay pulled away from the curb and guided the car through the traffic.
“I’m well, thank you,” he said. “How are you?”
“As well as can be expected,” she said, “all things considered.”
“That’s good,” he said. He hoped to avoid the conversation she was moving toward.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘good’,” she said. He didn’t respond, and after a long pause, she said, “Would you go out with a person like me?”
“I don’t really know what kind of person you are,” Clay said.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “I mean my legs.”
“Yes, I noticed them,” Clay said. “They’re very pretty.” He looked in the mirror and saw the blush that rushed up from the collar of her white blouse and turned her alabaster cheeks to a faint pink. She stared out the window until Clay drew up in front of her office. Before he got out to get her wheelchair from the trunk, she stopped him.
“Would you go out with me?” she said
“I can tell you this, if you’re a person I’d like to spend time with, your chair won’t stop me,” he said. He set up her chair on the sidewalk as usual, and she opened the door herself, which was not as usual. While he lifted her from the car to the wheelchair, she spoke softly but rapidly, so close, her lips almost touched his ear.
“Please escort me to a banquet on the seventh. It’s a Thursday night, for dinner, black tie. Please say yes,” she pleaded. “I have to go, and I… I just don’t want to look pathetic, sitting alone in my wheelchair while I’m being honoured.”
“What are you being honoured for?” he said while settling her into her wheelchair.
“Just some philanthropic… charity work,” she said. “I’ll rent you an evening suit and send a car for you and…”
“I know what philanthropic means,” he said dryly. “I have my own dinner suit, and I’ll think about it.” He went around and got into the car. She did not turn and roll into the building as usual. Both of them had forgotten about the charge slip and the usual twenty-five cent tip. She sat at the curb and watched the taxi drive away before she made her way to her office.
Clayton Wing’s day was busy as usual, and the time flew by a lunch break. Clay was looking forward to the end of his shift. He intended to enjoy a favourite meal at Chinese restaurant before going to a rehearsal for his Sunday night concert. His radio crackled with the voice of Herbie the dispatcher with an unusual message.
“Seventeen, call the office please,” said the radio. Clayton pulled into a fast food restaurant to use the phone.
“What’s up?” said Clay when Suzy, the office bookkeeper answered. “This is seventeen. Herbie said I should call.”
“Oh, Clayton, how are you?” said Suzy excitedly. “I never get to see you. Why don’t you come into the office once in a while?”
“What for?” he said.
“Don’t you want to see me?” Suzy said, disappointed. Clay was trying to remember who she was.
“Have we met?” he said.
“I’m the blond who gave you the original job application, don’t you remember,” she said. Clay raked his mind and recalled the plump bleached blond with the big blue eyes behind flashy, rhinestone-encrusted glasses.
“Why did you want me to call you, Suzy?” he said.
“Oh, it’s not me,” she said. “It’s Herbie – hang on a sec – and don’t be such a stranger, Clay? I have some things to show you that will help your job.” The phone went silent for several seconds before Herbie’s voice came on.

“Keep the change,” she said with an appreciate smile. Clay noticed that she was very pretty and even sexy, in a mature way.
“The fare is only thirty dollars,” he said.
“I know, I make this run often… too often,” she said, wistfully. In that instant, Clay saw the busy executive as a lonely woman, and he felt sorry for her, imagining her life to be filled with professional duties with no time for fun, love or romance. She picked up her bag and case and paused. “Would you consider picking me up here, at the arrivals level, Friday night?”
“I’m not allowed to pick up fares at the airport,” he said. “Another company has an exclusive contract.” She thought for a moment.
“I have an idea,” she said. “My car is in for repairs at Hardy Mercedes, downtown. I could pay you to pick it up for me and bring it here on Friday… if you could help me out with that.” Clayton thought about it.
“I arrive late,” she said. “Eleven fifty-five from Chicago, flight 639. I’d feel a lot… safer… if somebody I knew met me here at that hour.”
“You don’t know me,” Clay said, slightly irritated.
“I’m a good judge of people, Mr. Wing, and I feel sure you’re a good person. You could pick the car up tomorrow and use it for the few days.” Clayton could see the sensitive woman through the tough, successful businessperson and finally agreed. He had several errands to run, and it would help to have a good car. His old van was on its last legs. She handed Clay an embossed business card: ‘Julia Conrad, director, Davenport Talent International’.
Clayton picked the car up the next morning and was impressed that it was a new Mercedes S series, top of the line. He was self-conscious driving it around as he went to the computer store for some supplies and to a shopping centre for new jeans. He didn’t use the car any more than that. He went to his rehearsals on the bus. He parked the car in a supervised indoor space until Friday, when he was to go to the airport for Ms. Conrad. His mind was crowded with questions about Ms. Julia Conrad. He found her energy interesting, and she was certainly beautiful, even if she was twenty years older than Clayton was. He found her intelligence exciting, and all of these stimuli were in conflict with the one undeniable fact that made her of special interest to Clay. She was a ‘connection’. She was the kind of connection for which an entertainment hopeful like Clay would sell his soul. As a director of DTI, she had access to everything and everyone that an ambitious singer prays for. Davenport Talent International represents the most successful acts in concerts, television, film and recording. He was conflicted as to whether or not he should exploit the accidental connection.
Early the next morning, Clayton pulled out of the cab garage and the anticipated call came from Herbie. He drove toward the Whitehall address and pulled up at the gate as the young woman rolled out onto the sidewalk. Clay got the impression that she was eager this morning. She smiled shyly and kept her eyes down as he lifted her from her chair. He felt like she had pulled her skirt aside at just the moment that he scooped her up in his arms. His hand was fully planted on her soft thigh, and she wore perfume for the first time.

“I understand,” she said. “Might I ever hear some of your music somewhere? Do you have any recordings?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll be in a little concert in a small club Sunday night.”
“I’d like to see it,” she said. “Have you any tickets?”
“You don’t need tickets. It’s just a club. Buy a drink and tip the host and waitresses and that’s it.”
Clay knew she’d never show up at the Club Starlight, and as the day grew busier he forgot the conversation completely. He paused for a quick hamburger at a fast food drive-through window and continued to work through the evening, taking a double shift because he had nothing better to do, and money was always in short supply. At about seven-thirty in the evening Clayton took a call from Herbie for a rush pickup at a luxurious, mid-town condominium building. He arrived at the fare’s address just as the fare, a mature, slightly stout, very rushed woman hurried through the glass doors that were held open by a uniformed doorman. The woman was carrying an alligator briefcase and a small wheeled travelling bag and a very expensive purse. Clay stepped out of the car and opened the rear door for the woman. He held out his hands to take her bag but she rushed past him and tossed everything into the back seat and slid into the seat. She looked up at Clay, and he noticed that she was very beautiful, and only slightly overweight, which was to be expected. He guessed that she must be about fifty-five years old.
“I’m late for a flight at nine o’clock,” she said. “There will be a big tip for you if you get me to the airport on time.”
“I’ll do my best,” Clay said as he closed her door and slid behind the wheel to pull out of the circular driveway and speed up the street while the woman groped around in her purse.
“Oh my God!” she said.
“Problem?” Clay said, looking in the rear-view mirror.
“I’ve forgotten my reading glasses,” she said. “I can’t make this presentation without them. You’d best go back, and I’ll try to catch the next flight.” Clayton checked his watch.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said. “I believe I can get you there even if we return for your glasses.” The woman punched a number into her cellular phone and after a few seconds spoke into it.
“Ruth, I’m coming back for my glasses. Please fetch them from my study and bring them down to George at the door,” she said. “Thank you.” Clayton very quickly pulled into the circular driveway again just in time to see a young black woman in a maid’s uniform walking up to the doorman with a glasses case. Clay jumped out of the car and met the doorman at the top of the steps, took the glasses and quickly returned behind the wheel of the cab. He held the case back over her shoulder for his fare to take it.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now, if you get me to my flight on time, I’ll know you’re the best cabby in the city.” Throughout the drive to the airport, Clay used every trick and backstreet shortcut he knew while the woman in the back seat studied papers from her briefcase. She looked up only when Clay drove into the airport grounds and up the ramp to the departure area. She hurriedly checked her watch and began putting her papers away and closed her briefcase.
“It seems I’ll make it,” she said. “You’re a Hell of a driver.”
“Thank you,” Clay said as he pulled up at the drop-off space. He stepped out of the car and went around to open the door for her. She rose from the car and fished around in her purse while Clay leaned in and brought out her bag and briefcase for her. She handed Clay a fifty-dollar bill.